marked me (like a bloodstain)

old scars

you were written in the stars that we are swimming in

Another foul word was scarring her skin.

Hermione couldn't see coward the same way she saw the mudblood on her forearm, but it still felt like it had been carved in with slanted letters. Each one burning and drawing out blood like Bellatrix Lestrange's blade had done. Still, after tossing and turning for hours, whispering a bitter farewell to the moon as the sun erupted orange and pink across the sky, she felt the word embedded down her spine. She kicked off the tangle of cold bedsheets and shuffled to her vanity, tugging Ron's old Chudley Cannons hoodie off to examine her back. Of course, there had not been a new, bleeding wound there, only old scars collected from old battles and old freckles collected from old summer days scattered across tawny skin.

What are you really afraid of?

Pansy's question kept echoing inside her skull, rattling perfectly placed barriers that had long kept the truth contained. She had known the answer, of course; not a lot escaped Pansy Parkinson, not when she had been bred to find and exploit faults, strengths, and sins. However, while Pansy had always been compelled to use such discoveries for her own personal gain, Hermione happened to be her friend. So she left Hermione alone with the ghost she had created for herself.

She had always been haunted by it—how could she not be when she had to look into Scorpius' eyes every day? But Hermione had learned to build walls. Brick by brick, she stacked each and then cemented those barriers in her mind, blocking out the taste, the sight, and the smell of Draco Malfoy.

Take your knickers off, Granger.

Come for me.

I never wanted you to die.

A child and a demanding job had taken precedence over the past. These had also forced her to heal, too; pushing her forward, even if she had to crawl on her hands and knees to overcome the war and the Death Eater serving a life sentence in Azkaban. And yet, despite excelling at everything, Hermione had not completely succeeded in taming the memory hidden behind those walls. She could occlude into her dying day, but she knew she would never truly forget—not the taste of Draco's tongue, tangy and sweet, even as he whispered filthy things against her throat, or the view from beneath him, all glowing grey eyes and flushed, bruised skin, or the metallic stench of blood and ash wrapping around them, let alone the faint traces of bergamot lingering in the crook of his neck.

Building him that cell inside her head had only made Hermione want to break him out. On occasion, she had stood before it with the key in her hand, but she knew there would be consequences if she set him free. So she forced herself to take a step back and leave him there, serving a life sentence in the darkest corners of her mind just like the one he had been serving in Azkaban.

But Draco had never been there.

"Oh, come look, Wendell!"

Looking up from the page she had been stuck on for the past hour, Hermione had to shield her eyes from the warm sunshine as a woman with an even warmer gaze marveled at the sandcastle Scorpius was putting together.

It was her mother.

"Well, that's Buckingham Palace," said Wendell Wilkins with a critical eye that never proved to be harsh, not when there was always an impressed tone weaved into every word. He put a hand on his wife's shoulder, both of them leaning in for further inspection. "Great architectural choice, lad."

Scorpius opened his mouth, a grin already pulling at the corners, but he turned to Hermione first. His amusement was quickly fading, like the waves of the ocean behind them had reached out and claimed it, ready to take back his happiness to unchartered depths.